In the Years That Followed
by YesitsJanessa
Summary: It's been five years since the death of Sherlock Holmes. Strange occurrences are appearing... Could it be possible? Is Sherlock really alive?


_Sherlock!_

John awoke with a jolt, soaking in his own perspiration. He sat up in bed, his eyes searching in the dark for something… someone… nothing.

Another dream.

He laid his head back against his pillow, his heart pounding hard against his chest. The dream – no, the _nightmare_ which occurred at least five nights, if not _every_ night a week, had returned.

His best friend Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the rooftop of a 70-foot hospital building five years ago and the moment in which Sherlock and John shared their final goodbye is what haunted John in his recurring nightmares.

John had attempted one too many times to move forward and find a new flatmate to help him pay the expenses of the flat. Everyone knew him too well as "Sherlock's assistant" or "Robin" or "the screwed-up doctor" to even consider housing with him.

The truth of it was that John hadn't learned how to cope with himself let alone anything else. The nightmares, the tremors in his hand, going back to therapy; everything was just as it was before. Sure, business at Scotland Yard had picked up; everyone there knew him as "Watson, the most brilliant doctor of them all", but it meant nothing to him. What did money and work matter when his best friend was dead?

He could only imagine how Molly Hooper, the girl from the morgue, also secretly known as Sherlock's Love Interest, was feeling. He hadn't spoken to her much, as he didn't make many trips to St. Bart's anymore. He couldn't.

St. Bartholomew's Hospital was the very building he had witnessed his friend's suicide from. He had stood outside that very building five years before and watched as Sherlock jumped to his death. He had run up to that very sidewalk; taken the man's hand; felt his nonexistent pulse; proclaimed him dead; all at that very building. He couldn't do so much as glance at it for only a moment without feeling as if he may have a heart attack.

And now, as he lied on his piping hot bedspread, his nightshirt clinging to his back, he recalled every breath; every word; every tear shed; every second in between Sherlock's last words and his fall. He recalled the gravesite; the headstone; removing Sherlock's things from his room in the flat, and any experiments he had currently been analyzing.

John recalled everything. And it tore him apart.

He couldn't break down and cry, he couldn't throw himself to the floor and pound his fists against the wall, he couldn't blog about any of it, and he certainly couldn't kill himself. He just had to go through the motions, pretend it never happened, and force himself to go to work whenever he was called over which was usually every two or three days.

But really, he knew in his heart that he would never forget. Not only because his vivid nightmares were a constant reminder, but because he and Sherlock had been through every street, every shop, and every house in and around Baker Street. There was no way he could take a cab within five miles of 221B, look out the window, and not be reminded of something or other he had done.

The truth was…Sherlock had done more than just used him as his assistant. He had done more than just brought him along on cases. He had been more than a boss or a partner or a colleague. Sherlock Holmes was John Watson's best friend, his _only_ friend, and he had made his life something worth living.

Now John felt as if he had nothing to live for. Nothing at all.

John lifted the yellow tape surrounding the newest crime scene. A young woman in her mid-twenties laid face down on the pavement outside of a bar. Her skimpy outfit suggested she was at the club for a very obvious reason.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, the man who had called John up for the job, approached him and explained the situation.

"We found her this morning, already dead. Just lying there, no ID card, no handbag, no anything."

John knelt down and carefully observed the purple bruises on her right forearm. Her blonde hair had one long streak of red, where blood had flowed from a puncture wound in her head to the cement below. John rolled her body over on its side and noticed a deep red, almost purple mark on her chin.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked John.

"Yeah," John replied, not taking his eyes off the woman, "So far I don't see any signs of a weapon but there was definitely a struggle,"

John repositioned himself on the other side of the body and continued, "the bruises on her arm indicate that someone had grabber her hard enough that she couldn't get away, making these marks," John demonstrated by lining his fingers up with the bruises. His hand fit almost perfectly with the purple marks on the woman's forearm.

John looked at the woman's hands; no marks. He looked down at her knees; spotless.

"She fell," John said, "but not on her knees; if she had fallen forward she would have tried to stop herself from hitting the ground, meaning her hands and knees would be skinned up."

"Meaning she fell on her back?" Lestrade inquired.

"Exactly," John replied, "that would explain the cut on her head."

"What about her chin?"

"After she fell, she was turned over onto her stomach. She tried to get away but her killer pushed her head down, causing her to scrape her chin."

"All out in the open though," John mumbled to himself. He looked all around the scene, searching for traces of something – anything that would give him some sort of indication as to why… Ooh.

John knelt down to the ground and picked up a very small digital camera.

"How did no one see this?" He thought to himself.

John stood up and flipped through the pictures. There it was; the perfect evidence. In each picture was a back view of just what John had described. Not only that, but there was a circle of people, all gathered around the young woman and a young man sitting on top of her. It was like a show almost. As if these young adults wanted a show, so they took a woman outside and made a show.

John was absolutely infuriated. He took the camera over to Lestrade and practically threw it to him.

"Have a look," John huffed. "You've got all the evidence you need right there."

Lestrade went through the photos, his face stone-cold emotionless.

"How could you have missed a _camera_ lying out right in the open?!" John demanded.

One of the officers, who John knew all too well, spoke up.

"We looked around the entire premises, there was no camera."

"Oh really?" John replied sarcastically, "Then I suppose it just showed up out of nowhere, did it Anderson?"

"I—"

Lestrade interrupted Anderson's comeback to John. "Every one of these pictures shows our victim being beaten, but there aren't that many marks on her body. Meaning she was dead while she was being beaten."

John nodded. "The question is _why_ did she die? There aren't any knife wounds and there would have been a lot more blood had she bled to death."

"Suffocation, maybe," Anderson stated.

"Or maybe you're an idiot,"

"Alright," Lestrade spoke up, "get her body to the morgue; we can have more tests done there. As for you," Lestrade turned to John, "I think you need to get home, have some tea, whatever it takes for you to relax."

"I'm perfectly fine, thanks." John protested.

Lestrade motioned for Anderson to leave. He followed the other officers, who helped to remove the woman's body from the scene.

Once the area was almost completely cleared, Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder.

"John," He said, "you know we would be nowhere without you, but ever since the incident, you've been more…I don't know…Insulting."

John nodded slowly, "You're right. I'm…sorry,"

"I understand what you must be feeling. And don't think we all don't miss him; to be honest we were all much better off with him. No matter how much of an inconsiderate sod he was at times, he was the most brilliant."

"You're right, he was," John agreed. There was a long moment of silence before John spoke up to break the silence. "I'll, uh, have that cuppa back at the flat then. Try to wind down and all."

Lestrade nodded and clapped John on the shoulder. "We'll keep you updated, Doctor."

"Cheers,"

John walked back towards the flat, his heart sinking inside his chest at the thought of his friend.

The walk back was rather dreary, no thanks to the dark rainclouds that gathered in the sky. John trudged up the front steps of 221B and knocked on the door. In a matter of seconds, Mrs. Hudson had opened the door and warmly welcomed John in.

"Anyone stop by today?" John asked.

"No," Mrs. Hudson replied.

John heaved a sigh. He had put a notice up in the paper for anyone who wanted to move into 221B and help him pay rent. John was at the point where he would either have to get a new job or move out.

"Someone did phone earlier though," Mrs. Hudson added, "They asked for you and when I told them you weren't here they just hung up."

"Hmm," John inquired, "Maybe they'll stop by later."

John went to the downstairs kitchen to make himself some tea while Mrs. Hudson continued on talking.

"Anything interesting today?" She asked.

"Not really out of the ordinary." John replied. "Found a camera though, most of the evidence was on it."

"Strange someone would leave that behind, don't you think?"

"I know; must've dropped it out of their pocket."

"Or maybe they wanted you to find it."

John chuckled lightly, "I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson."

_Ba-ding!_

John searched through his pockets for his phone, the source of the text alert sound.

He was speechless.

Lit up on the screen of his iPhone was a text that read:

**Wrong.**

John spent hours on end trying to get a location on the phone he had gotten the text from. If he remembered anything Sherlock had shown him, it was certainly not how to locate a phone. Of course, any normal person would think to search the house because Sherlock was obviously listening in to the conversation. Otherwise, how would he have known the exact moment in which to send the text? But John knew Sherlock. He knew just how good Sherlock was at lying low and staying hidden. He knew how capable Sherlock was of going unnoticed, and John knew that by the time he received the text, Sherlock could have been in a cab headed miles away.

Mrs. Hudson relentlessly nagged John about eating. "You haven't had anything for hours," she would say. John would only ignore her and continue on his search.

A total of four hours and _finally_ he found it. He wrote down the address and hailed the first cab in sight.

Five minutes later, he arrived at the graveyard; the very graveyard where Sherlock's body was buried five years ago.

"Right then," he called out, "I'm here. You can come on out now!"

John strolled around the dirt pathways before he caught sight of Sherlock's headstone. He hesitantly approached it, only to find that there was absolutely nothing different whatsoever. The ground hadn't been dug up, the headstone hadn't been moved; there wasn't even a note or a sign of any kind. Everything was exactly the way it was the last time John walked by, which was exactly five years ago. The only real difference was that the grass had managed to grow back.

John clenched his fists and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Look, if this is some kind of joke," he shouted, "it's not funny!"

He took one last glance at the grave before turning on his heel and walking back down the path towards the street. He swore under his breath.

"Look at me," he mumbled to himself, "going mad over some-"

He stopped short and whipped around. He was sure he heard someone following him…

"If there's anyone there," he called out, "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop. I'm not being funny, this isn't…"

His voice trailed off. In the distance he caught sight of a slip of paper stuck to Sherlock's headstone.

John nearly sprinted back to the grave where he unstuck the paper and read it out loud to himself.

"Analee Jones,"

It was official; John was confused. He turned the paper over to reveal pure white. No extra notes, no explanation, nothing. Just the name of a woman he'd never heard of.

He stared at the paper a while longer before shoving it into his pocket. Not a moment later, his phone rang. He was hesitant to remove it from his pocket.

Lestrade. John pressed the **answer** button and held the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah," John answered.

"John," Lestrade said, "we've got information on the victim; medically related information."

"Okay, I'll be right there." John replied.

He hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. Taking one last glance at the headstone, John turned back toward the path that led to the street. He wasn't particularly excited about revisiting St. Bart's, but he was beginning to accept that this day would be the most eventful one he'd had in quite a while.

"John," Lestrade greeted him as he walked through the door, "We've got name, age, family history, former address; everything."

John nodded as Lestrade went on.

"Her name was Analee Jones, she was twenty-three—"

"Wait," John interrupted, "what was her name?"

"Analee Jones," Lestrade repeated.

John put his hand in his pocket and felt the slip of paper…Analee Jones…

He nodded and Lestrade continued.

"As a child, she had heart complications followed by a transplant when she was nineteen. The morning she was murdered, she went to her doctor with complications of some sort."

"And you're suggesting her heart gave out while she was being attacked?" John asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "We're not entirely sure, but yeah, that's what we're leaning towards. If you wanted to take a look at the information we've got, it's all on the computer."

John agreed and Lestrade led him to a laptop set up where a man was sitting, staring at the screen.

"Ben," Lestrade said.

The man looked up.

"This is Doctor John Watson."

"G'day," Ben's Australian accent rang out.

Lestrade continued, "He needs to have a look."

He gestured toward the chair beside him. John took a seat and listened as Ben gave him an overview of all the information they had found on Analee.

"Here's what I've got so far," Ben started. "Her name was Analee, age twenty-three. She had a heart defect as a child and when she was nineteen she had a transplant. We're not entirely sure why, but four years later, she started having complications with her _new_ heart."

"What were the symptoms?" John asked.

Ben clicked a couple of times and scrolled down a bit before replying, "The morning of her death, she went to the doctor complaining of a fever, fatigue, nausea and vomiting, shortness of breath _and_ chest pain."

"Organ rejection," John concluded.

"Wouldn't that happen earlier on?" Ben asked. "I mean, wouldn't her body have been used to the new heart by then?"  
"Something could happen at any time." John replied.

Ben nodded. "So you think she went to the club that night to sort of wind down, get everything off her mind?"

"Most likely, yeah," John agreed.

Ben continued, "She did have family history of high blood pressure and bipolar disorder."  
"She could have had high blood pressure on top of all the other symptoms." John said.

"That'll do it," Ben nodded.

"The question is," John added, "_why_ did that man want to kill her? What did he have against her?"

"Ah," Ben replied, "it could have been because she was into prostitution."

John looked at Ben questioningly.

"Yes, this woman was a prostitute." Ben repeated himself. "This guy could have been one of her clients."

"Could be," John agreed, "But why was everyone all gathered around in a circle just watching?"

"Gang, maybe," Ben suggested. "How many were there?"

"I don't know," John replied, "Ten, fifteen at the most probably."

"Could've been a gang. See, there's not always that many in a group, but there's _always_ a leader. Just say the man who killed her was the leader, right? He knows this girl because they've been together before; there are lots of reasons why he'd be mad. Maybe he wanted another go and she refused, or maybe he was just drunk and jumped her. Who knows? So you've got an angry gang leader, the rest of the crew come flooding over, the guy takes it outside, it becomes a show, Analee's heart goes out, the guy just killed someone, and they all make a run for it before the cops get involved."

John nodded. "Very good, Ben,"

Ben smiled. "It's my job."

Lestrade, who had heard everything, approached Ben and John.

"We'll be needing information on at least one of the gang members, to find our killer," Lestrade said. "You can leave that up to us, John. Thank you for coming by."

John shook hands with Ben before hailing another cab back to the flat. While the case had been a 50-50 success so far, there was still one more question left unanswered.

After tea, Mrs. Hudson had decided to take a trip to the supermarket, leaving John alone in the flat. He stayed upstairs watching the telly, trying not to go bonkers over his situation.

He held the slip of paper in one hand, trying to figure out how it was done. For one, the people at Scotland Yard hardly ever found that much information in a matter of so few hours. And for another, how did he sneak through the crowd _and_ take pictures of the whole gang incident?

Costume. Of course! Everyone in London knew Sherlock Holmes and would recognize him without a doubt _unless _he was unrecognizable. How did he get the pictures then? Anyone could see if someone had a camera. And if someone had a camera, that someone would be in _big_ trouble.

John let that one go. Sherlock, he knew, would be able to pull off anything, no problem. Surely he'd be able to hide a camera.

Then set it out to be found…_That's_ why no one saw the camera lying there; because it _wasn't_ there! Sherlock had stayed hidden at the scene and at just the right moment, set the camera out for John to find!

That would explain the "wrong" text; because someone _did_ want to be found. He was setting out clues, not only to solve the case of Analee Jones, but to solve the case of Sherlock Holmes.

"But how," he wondered, "did he survive the fall?"

There was a knock at the door.

John's heartbeat quickened. That could be him…

John turned off the telly and walked down the stairs. As he approached the door handle, he began to feel slightly faint. There was a chance that as soon as he opened the door he could be face-to-face with a supposed dead man…

Or it could be his brother.

"Mycroft," John stammered, "What a surprise. Um…"

Mycroft remained emotionless. "John," He said, "I have a message."

"And I have something to tell you as well." John said.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "is alive."

"H-have you seen him?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded slowly. "In one way or another I believe we both have."

John opened the door for Mycroft to come in.

"I have been led to believe that my brother _wants_ to be found." Mycroft said.

"I think you're right," John agreed. "I got a text from him, found the location of his phone at the gravesite, and found a note on his headstone with the name of the victim of my latest case written on it."

"I received a text as well, leading me here to you."

"What do you mean, leading you here?"

"He sent me the name of two different locations. One was here, and another was Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."

"I haven't got anything. I mean, I don't have any clues for you or anything."

"I don't think that's what he was intending,"

"What _do_ you think then?"

"That is what I can't quite figure out."

John sent Mycroft a questioning look.

"And you want me to figure it out for you?" He asked.

Mycroft nodded. He handed his phone over to John.

"That's all he's sent," Mycroft pointed to the text message on the screen.

**221B Baker Street **

**St. Bart's Hospital **

**-SH**

"Maybe you're not supposed to go to St. Bart's…" John started, "Maybe you were supposed to come here, tell me, and have me go."

"Well I wouldn't know," Mycroft said, "I don't think like my brother does."

"But I've been to the hospital already, why would I need to go back?" John inquired.

"Perhaps there's something there," Mycroft suggested.

Suddenly, John had an idea.

"Mycroft," he said, "I think you're right."

John gave Mycroft back his phone, ran out the door, hailed another cab, and dialed Lestrade's number.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade," John said, almost frantically, "I need to know how long Ben has been on your staff."

"Couple of weeks, why?" Lestrade asked.

"No matter; thanks." John ended the call and waited impatiently for the cab to pull up alongside St. Bart's.

He paid the cabbie and ran up to the front door of the building. Locked. John swore and kicked the door.

"I left Mycroft alone at the flat." John groaned to himself. Of all the people he could have left at his flat, it had to be Mycroft. He and John had developed some trust issues over the years, and John was more anxious than ever to get back to the flat, in hopes of saving himself and Mrs. Hudson from eternal ridicule over "the state of the place" which Mycroft had complained about one too many times before. Stupid rich people…

The next cabbie John ordered to drive faster, thus he had to pay more, and thus more swear words.

"This is not my day," John moaned to himself.

He flung open the door of the flat, only to find Ben sitting in Mycroft's place.

"Ben," John exclaimed, surprised, "how did you get in?"

"Oh sorry, mate," Ben said, "man in a suit; he said to tell you to contact him if you found anything out. He didn't say what for though; I just figured he had something to do with Analee's case."

John nodded. "Um, if you don't mind my asking, why are you in my flat?"

"Detective Inspector told me to tell you what we found," Ben replied. "Said it'd be better if someone stopped by rather than making you go back out again."

"Okay," John agreed, "so what did you find out?"

"The man from the club had, in fact, been with Analee once," Ben replied. "He saw her at the club, so he started acting up around her and she tried to get away. She got out of the building, where he chased her around to the back, followed by the rest of his gang. He said she started breathing weird, but he didn't take any real notice of it because he was drunk; they all were. He pushed her to the ground and was gonna have a go at her when she pulled out her keys and gave him a good scratch all the way down the left side of his face. He got mad, started punching her, and he says he doesn't remember when she died exactly. He said one of the gang members noticed first that she wasn't breathing, and that was when he stopped, took her handbag, and made a run for it."

John stood there, nodding his head, thinking everything through.

"That's good, I mean, that you've got it all figured out." He said.

"Yeah," Ben agreed, "we almost didn't get anything out of the guy. He was really resilient, so I heard."

The next few moments passed in awkward silence, until Ben spoke up once again.

"Sorry, I…" he patted each one of his pockets before sighing heavily. "I haven't had a fag in so long. You don't happen to have any, do you?"

"Oh, yeah, just upstairs," John replied. "Hold on a minute."

He went upstairs where he found the last box of Sherlock's cigarettes. He had kept them in hopes his friend might someday come back, but he figured now would be a good time to just pass them on to someone else.

"These are kind of aged a while," John said, walking back down the stairs, "they belonged to my fr—"

John stopped short. Ben was nowhere in sight.

"Ben?" John called out.

There was no reply. John sighed heavily and just as he was about to put the cigarette box down, he found a note on the table.

**I'm back.**

The note wasn't signed, but John was 99.9% sure he knew who had written it.

He looked up to find Sherlock standing a mere two feet away from him, with Ben's red sweater and blue jeans hanging over his arm.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said, his silver eyes staring straight into John's.

John took a deep breath. "'Hello, John'," he said, "is that the best you could come up with?"

"Well, I—"

Sherlock's words were cut short, thanks to John's fist hitting his face at full speed.

"Sherlock Holmes, you inconsiderate, narcissistic twat!" John shouted, his anger erupting all at once like a volcano.

Sherlock stumbled around a bit, trying to regain his composure.

"I can't believe you did this to me!" John continued. "To Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, _everyone!_ You were alive and you abandoned us all!"

"I had to or you would all be dead!" Sherlock insisted.

John laughed sarcastically. "You had to let us all suffer? I would _rather_ have died than have to live like this! For _five years_, Sherlock!"

"I'm sorry, John,"

"Oh, you're sorry? Do you have any idea the hell I've been through?!"

"Everything's alright now, John—"

"NO! No, Sherlock, everything is NOT alright!"

John stopped and stood still, breathing heavily.

"You were dead. I saw you die." He said more softly. "And if you think that coming back, faking this…'Ben', and showing up at the flat is going to make everything alright, it's not."

Sherlock, for once, looked genuinely torn and confused.

"I'm truly sorry, John," he said, "I can explain everything."

"Yeah, well, you have five years to make up for." John huffed.

With that, he turned and walked out the door, leaving Sherlock behind.

"Well, everyone," Lestrade started, "the reason why I've gathered you all here once again, as you may already know, is because five years ago today, Scotland Yard lost its best and only consulting detective."

John stood next to Lestrade, coffee in hand, and stared awkwardly at the large group of people gathered in memory of Sherlock Holmes. To them, he was still dead, and always would be.

While John knew better, he didn't say a word. He just listened to the speech that Lestrade made every year; about Sherlock being the greatest man he'd ever known, the most brilliant mastermind, same old bla bla bla every year.

"He's been missed every year since. We're not the same without him. But at least on the bright side, if there is one, we can live without being ridiculed every which way by a careless sociopath."

The office erupted with light chuckles and clever remarks. John had heard enough.

"You know what, no!" He protested, "You're all wrong!"

The room fell silent and every voice stopped except for John's.

"I thought you were smarter than this," John retorted. "You're all standing around in a circle drinking coffee, pretending to care. What if Sherlock was alive? What do you think he would say? I know he sure as heck wouldn't look at you lot and go '_that_ is a group of smart people' because we aren't. We aren't smart people! We're mindless little children stuck in adult bodies. Do you know why we're lost without Sherlock Holmes? _Do you_? Because he was the only smart one around. What does it matter that he wasn't afraid to speak the truth? More people lived when Sherlock lived than they do now, because whether everyone hated him or not, he still chose to save lives. He chose to spend every waking moment of his life devoted to finding clues that we were so naïve to pass over. You know what? Sherlock Holmes saved all of our lives, and not one of you even knew it."

John stormed out of the building and just as he was about to hail a cab, a deep voice behind him spoke up,

"Sentimental,"

John turned around to face Sherlock. He half wanted to punch him again, but refrained himself.

"Yes, well, it needed to be said." He muttered. "Five years and I never said anything," He shrugged. "I felt like I should."

"I understand you're mad—"

"No, Sherlock, mad doesn't cover it." John interrupted. "In fact, I don't even know what to call this. You left me and Mrs. Hudson alone in a flat that I can barely pay for now. So many people have died without their cases being solved because of some roadblock that 'Doctor John Watson' couldn't solve. Have you noticed how _everyone_ in Scotland Yard depends on me now? I can't even imagine how Molly must feel, losing you and having to go back to dating guys from the office."

"Molly helped me,"

John was baffled. "She what?"

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "I didn't pull it off on my own. Molly helped me."

"Wha—how in the world did…ugh," John groaned, "I can't handle this anymore."

John leaned up against the side of the building and ran his hands through his hair.

"_Why_, Sherlock?" John asked. "I just want to know _why_ you did this."

"Moriarty had three archers; one on you, one on Lestrade, and one on Mrs. Hudson. The order was that if those men didn't see me jump off the building, they would all shoot."

"As long as Moriarty was alive, you could have held the archers off; thought of a new plan—"

"Yes, that would have worked splendidly if he hadn't shot himself."

John looked down at the pavement below his feet. It all made sense now.

"John," Sherlock said, "I had to jump to save all of you. If I had come back the next day alive and well, Moriarty would have won."

John nodded slowly. "Well then, what are you going to do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Stay low; solve crimes in the shadows so to speak."

"So you'll not be moving back then?" John asked.

"I've been managing well," Sherlock replied, "but if you need me, I suppose it wouldn't be a problem."

"Mrs. Hudson's kept all your things in boxes in your room."

"My microscope?"

"That too, yeah."

After a minute, Sherlock made his decision.

"Should we take a cab?"

John laughed lightly, as did Sherlock.

"Yeah, a cab's probably a good idea." John agreed.

"_Taxi_!"


End file.
